


Sam’s Town

by Cerfblanc



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: 1980s, Also a little shit, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Coming of Age, Gen, Jealousy, M/M, Memories, Nathan’s too precious for this world, Sam is a sad boi, Teen Angst, thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 01:23:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13671336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerfblanc/pseuds/Cerfblanc
Summary: Sam is a teenage wreck and is accident-prone. He’s hot. Nathan is just kinda there. Mother Nature hasn’t gotten him yet. Time is dwindling.





	1. Birth

**Author's Note:**

> Idk I had this idea for quite some time? Some thoughts on the boys? I don’t know? It’s only a couple of chapters long, soo what it’s pretty short okay cool stuff much appreciation I love you all comments and kudos are very welcome <3 hope you enjoy!

_**BIRTH** _

 

At the peak of youth Nathan began to notice the change within his older brother.

There was the length of his mousey hair that fell so naturally across his eyes, and the faded marks and freckles that only appeared when his cheeks caught the sun. He tanned well.

There was the accurateness of his Cupid’s bow and the straightness of the pearls lodged and hidden behind his evened lips. There was the boyish curve of his nose and the youthful laugh lines he made when he grinned. The sharpness of his jaw. The cut of the bone within his chin.

There was the unwavering apple that sat in his throat, somehow, weirdly, so awkwardly attractive, the paleness of his neck and the outline of his collar made his female classmates stare and the males would shrug in envy for where their girlfriends are gazing.

And it’s fucking irritating.

So. Fucking. _Irritating_.

Because Sam knows he’s everything every other guy _isn’t_.

Sam knows he’s the target of an attack bound to happen, today or tomorrow, the day after, maybe the day after that, within the school hallway or maybe the building’s entrance or any classroom out of at least a dozen.

Nathan believes that just about every young man in his brother’s year group wanted to wring Sam’s neck for how damn attractive he is.

It’s like once in a life time, one generation of humanity will experience this event.

Like how there was only ever one Leonardo DaVinci, only one Michelangelo, only one Mozart and only one Beethoven. The generations after that will _never_ come close to that produce, a batch God— _whoever the fuck you want to call him_ —has so kindly offered to history.

Yet somehow along the line _Sam_ happened.

Yet somehow Nathan’s brother was born into the world just like _that_ no preface or plan no _nine-month-bullshit-preparation-in-advance_ he just _happened_ and slipped out like a bar of soap all glossed up with his mother’s hardship and bloody dedication; to keep him as her own and her first child, and she was his first love.

Then Nathan happened.

Unlike the frantic rush to the hospital at three o’clock in the morning Nathan had sat curled so patiently inside his carrier and waited for time to come round, and his mother could rest her eyes and the labour would last within an hour or two, he was a complete contrast—one that began with chapter one and ended with an epilogue. No problem. Nathan had been planned from day one to the moment he cried out at the cold pressure.

His mother had said that his and his brother’s personalities grew from how they were born.

She believed that Sam had gotten his recklessness from how he had ‘demanded’ to be born. She said she remembered feeling his little heels pound her from the inside out, she said it felt like he was screaming.

And with that his looks and charisma payed it all off the moment Mother Nature decided to introduce herself, and the boys in his class suddenly had competition for the role of an alpha and the girls had a way better reason to masturbate more often.

And what was Nathan meant to pay off?

Not much, come to think of it.

Because he was the total opposite.


	2. Alabaster

_**Alabaster** _

 

In summer, Sam was a different person.

He was a lot more bright, more daring, wanted to fuck things up more often, and he tanned really well, and his hair became lighter.

In winter, Sam was a different person.

He was still bright, still funny, like he always was, but he was tired. He never slept in winter. His tan would fade, his skin would become pale, and his hair would become darker. The rings that hung under his eyes would sometimes turn purple, and his faint freckles would disappear. His hair would be a little longer. It would cover his eyes.

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

At the time he asked me this, I was ten years old. He would have been fifteen back then.

“Dunno.” I said back. I was sat on his bedroom floor with some Lego. I was trying to build a house without the instructions.

I remember asking him, “Why question me?”

And he responds, “Because you’re my brother.” And when I look over to him he’s lying on his back on his bed staring at the ceiling with his AC/DC t-shirt bunched up to his collarbone and he’s drawing invisible patterns across his body with his pointer finger. I can see the outline of his ribs.

“You sound like a girl when you say that.” I said. I wasn’t aware of sexuality then, and now when I think about it I wonder why he felt like that.

“What?” He turns his head to me, and he stops tracing over his skin.

“When you asked if you were pretty.”

“ _Am_ I pretty?”

“Dunno.”

“Am I good-looking then?”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He had never asked me it before, so I didn’t know.

I remember saying, “You have a nice face.” And he started to laugh. I remember telling him I meant what I said, I wasn’t being funny, and he replied, “Yeah, I believe you,” and I remember looking away from him because I could feel my face redden because of his white smile and soft gaze he only ever used with someone he really loved.

In summer he never did that. He only ever did those kind of things in winter. Winter was a time of experimentation, for Sam. When we were closed in with snow and cold surrounding us, it was the best opportunity. During summer it was different. We were free. Sam wouldn’t have his confided chance in summer, like he has in winter. It just wasn’t there.

I wasn’t sure what I liked most.

 


	3. Bruise

_**BRUISE** _

 

 

“What in the _world_?”

I remember seeing Mom’s dainty finger tips running across what I thought was black-and-blue makeup Sam had decided to brush across his eyes and cheeks and lips. Maybe some red lipstick too. It looked pretty smeared, though. It was put on quite badly.

I said, “Your makeup is bad,” when he had shouted at Mom to leave him alone, and I had snuck into the bathroom to see the colour blushed into his skin.

It takes him a moment to figure out why I said ‘makeup’, but he blinks with an immediate response, “Yeah, well, I can’t wash this makeup off. It’s annoying. It hurts too.”

“Makeup hurts?” I ask. I’m small and I’m young, thin and delicate.

My brother shrugs. “Well, this kind of makeup does.”

“What about the lipstick?”

“The what?—“ he stops, and then he blinks again, and his bony fingers come to touch at his upper lip, his nose, “—oh, that’s…that’s…well…” he looks at me.

“You’re really bad at putting on makeup.”

He tries to smile, “Yeah. I am.” And then he shakes his head, like he’s said the wrong thing, being the wrong person, the bad person.

“It’s not makeup.” He rephrased. I remember looking at the marks on his face.

“See this?” He comes close to me, and everything focuses to his face, his eyes; they turn amber in the light, and the heavy colour in his cheeks, blooming like ink in water, and the red lipstick is smeared across his upper lip, it’s dribbled a little, and it’s dry. My brother touches his lip, and wipes his thumb across it, and the red comes off.

“It’s blood.” He said, and wipes again. He sniffles. It hurts, “And someone gave me these.” He indicates to the purple and blue blush.

“As a gift?”

He blinks at me. “Yeah…kinda,” a beat, “they punched them into me.”

“Oh. Did it hurt?”

“Hm.”

I think I was too young to understand. Or maybe I was just stupid. I think it was both.

When Sam later locked himself in his room, I slumped against his door like a cat, pawing to get in—I remember hearing Mom talking to Dad, her voice angry, but she was crying, and Dad didn’t seem fazed by it, and she spoke with the house phone in her right hand, ready to call up the school, probably to ask why Sam came home with makeup all over his face.

I think she wanted help. She cried, “Your eldest son just got himself into a bashing, and you don’t care.”

Just because he doesn’t like girls.

_There’s a lot of bad people in the world._

And it’s sad.

_Because it’ll never change._

 


End file.
